Evil Against Me
by PadmeKSkywalker
Summary: In one hour, Padme Skywalker was violated in her own home. One hour was all it took to turn her into a scarred, aching shadow, while Anakin grew bitter and resentful. A story about wounds and how they are healed. Rated for one graphic scene.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This isn't like anything I've written before, so be warned. ****I've had an idea for something like this in my head for a while; I finally started writing it because I knew I needed a challenge. ****There is graphic violence in here, and a rape scene, and some language that I don't use in real life, but I wrote none of it gratuitously. Whatever's in the story, I put there for a reason. A bit more serious than anything I've done in the past. I'd really be interested in feedback, especially for later chapters, which will be more difficult for me.**

* * *

"You look beautiful," said Anakin. Padmé smiled, almost shyly, looking around to see that no one had heard, but the hallway was deserted save for the two of them. "Isn't there any way we could get out of here?"

"There is not," she told him sternly. "How would it look if I didn't even make an appearance at the event that I've been promoting for months?"

"Like you were taking a well-deserved break with your husband," said Anakin, but she waved away his sweet, silly words with gesture of her hand.

"I've got to be there tonight," Padmé said, "and you know it."

He bent his head to kiss her, enjoying her taste. When she broke away, it was to murmur in a plaintive voice, "I saw you've upped the number of guards again. Now I can't go anywhere without being followed by at least one of them. You know I don't like that."

"I know," Anakin admitted, "but I'd rather be safe than sorry. If something ever happened to you—"

"But nothing will," Padmé protested, "and if it did, you'd be there to protect me."

He kissed her again. "Love, you know I would rather die than let any harm come to you. But even now that I'm in charge of your security, I can't be around you all the time."

"You talk like you're expecting an assassination attempt," she teased him. Anakin only smiled at her.

"You should go get changed," he said. "I'll take you back to your apartment, but then I have to get back to the fundraiser."

The ride back to Padmé's rooms was all too short. Lately it seemed that every meeting they had was like that. Anakin had to continually remind himself that this was not a teenager's bashful, flirtatious game, but a real and deadly threat to both their careers. A quick kiss caught by some amateur photographer would not merely be news for the cooing readers of tabloids; more likely, it would result in dishonorable expulsion for Anakin, and eternal disgrace for Padmé.

They arrived at her apartment under the watchful eyes of the two guards that stood at the door. She had been right in saying that Anakin's security for her was more stringent lately.

"I'll see you at the party, M'lady," said Anakin, in a disinterested voice that, it seemed, could never have uttered such ardent words of endearment only minutes before. Padmé gave him a little wave—she moved to step inside, then stopped.

"Do you still have that letter for me?" she asked him.

"Letter?"

"Someone was trying to give it to me when we were in the crowd; I couldn't see who. Didn't you take it?"

"Oh, that? It wasn't a letter, M'lady. It was another one of those pamphlets about curfew safety. I didn't think it necessary for you to read."

Padmé nodded her thanks, and then entered her apartment. Anakin watched her go, then returned to his speeder and drove off. He had recognized the crudely-printed writing on that paper as soon as he'd seen it being waved in front of her face, and had grabbed it before Padmé could reach it. Now he pulled his speeder out of the lane and let it hover idly.

The envelope, like all its predecessors, did not have on it a full address, but only two words: "To Padmé." The paper was of a thick, nasty quality, and the handwriting was blotched and scratchy. Dreading with a sick feeling what lay inside, Anakin slit open the envelope and read the letter. There was no preamble to the twisted message within.

_Your precious Jedi is stopping my letters and my messages and my gifts, but he can't keep us apart forever. You think he's pretty, don't you sweetheart, the pretty Jedi with the curly hair. Does he know you're thinking about me when you fuck him? Wait till I get him. I'll break his fingers one by one for touching you. I'll rip off his balls and feed them to him. And then I'll have to punish you, darling, dearest because you've kept me waiting for a really long time. You're being bad, but I'll get you too. I saw you yesterday with your hair down when you were getting ready for bed. I knew you were thinking about me because your hands kept moving all over your body, to the places you want me to kiss you, and I will kiss you and make it better once I've punished you like you deserve._

There was more but Anakin could not read it. It was all he could do to keep from vomiting with disgust and hatred and fear. It had been only a month since Padmé had gotten that first letter, had laughed it off and thrown it away. She had not worried about it since then—Anakin had made certain of that. It wasn't easy, getting them all away from her before she figured out what they were, but for nothing would he have let her agonize about these filthy, pornographic letters as he had.

He wanted to believe that these were only empty ravings and that his wife had nothing to fear, but there was a strange, determined strain in all of them that made him take them seriously. It was the reason that he held her a little tighter now when they were alone, and the reason for her increased security.

Anakin wanted to throw it away, but that wasn't gone enough for him. He would wait, as he always did, until he was alone, and could burn it. With each letter that disappeared into smoke and ash he felt the pressure on his chest relieve a bit, at least until the next one came. For now, he simply tucked the hated thing into a pocket and put the speeder back in gear, racing with unnecessary speed back toward the Coruscantian Children's Safety Awareness fundraiser.

* * *

The curly-haired Jedi was leaving, taking the letter with him. A low, bestial growl resonated from the throat of a short, heavy-set man; wide, round eyes rolled in their sockets. But it didn't matter, he told himself, breathing heavily through wide nostrils. Not after tonight, it wouldn't matter. Even after all this time the Jedi underestimated him.

The man turned away from his window, from which he had a perfect view of the senator's building. Sometimes, when she left a curtain open, he could see into her bedroom, could watch her as she moved, imagine the thoughts in her head. Once—he spat onto the floor with the memory—he had seen the Jedi come up behind her, kiss her neck and remove his shirt before they thought to close the shutters. Anger began brewing in his chest—but no matter, he told himself again.

Over the faded green tunic he was wearing, greasy with spots and ragged at the hem, he put a blue shirt. It was wrinkled, having been lying on his floor for the past few days since he had acquired it, but otherwise clean. The matching blue pants were almost too small, but he'd tried them on before and knew they would fit. A small, empty package sat by his door, and the most important part of the ensemble—a badge with a name, a logo and an unfamiliar picture—was safely in his pocket.

He'd seen the dress she was planning to wear tonight, and knew it would take her at least four minutes to get into. She liked to linger over her hair and makeup, if only to touch up, and that was another three. Seven minutes was plenty of time; after all, she was only a few steps away.

The package tucked under his arm, he looked at the mirror hung crooked on the opposite wall. Beetle-black eyes gazed back at him from underneath thick eyebrows; wide, thin lips were grinning. There was nothing in that picture that he found either particularly attractive or very ugly. But something was missing—he pulled the badge out and pinned it to his shirt, then put his hand back in his pocket to finger the one item still left there.

"I'm coming, sweetheart," he said to no one in the room, still grinning. "Ready or not, here I come."

Across the way, Padmé was fastening the last button on the sleeve of her dress, humming idly and flushed with the anticipation of tonight.

* * *

There was a knock at her bedroom door, and Padmé called, "Come in!" without rising from her dressing table. The door slid open to reveal a short, heavy-set man wearing a delivery uniform.

"Is it a package?" she asked him, frowning at the mirror. A strand of hair had come out of its style and refused to be tamed back into place. "Just leave it on the bed, please."

The man didn't answer, but moved toward the bed and laid his burden there. Instead of going, he stayed where he was, watching her.

"Do you need me to sign something?" Padmé asked him, turning and giving him a polite smile. He shook his head, a shock of short brown hair falling over one eye. His gaze upon her made Padmé shift her weight uncomfortably.

"Do you know me?" he asked her.

"I—I'm afraid I don't," she said, widening her smile. "Have we met?"

"No, never," he replied. His voice was deep and, though he spoke quietly, sounded as though it were wrenched from his throat only with effort. "Thanks to your husband. But we will."

Instantly Padmé's smile faded. "What do you know about that?" she demanded; all the breath seemed to have gone out of her in an instant. He took a step toward her.

"Why did you marry him?" he asked her, and suddenly his voice was plaintive, almost childlike. "You knew it wasn't right—you knew he didn't love you, didn't _really_ love you, not like I—"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Padmé hissed. She was backing away from him now, not bothering with politeness or bravery. Fear flared in her stomach like dragon's fire. "Please go, now."

That was when he seemed to lose patience with her. One second his hand was empty—the next it had plunged into his pocket and returned, grasping a switchblade knife. The point glittered in the dim light, and Padmé froze.

"Take anything you want," she murmured, clutching the back of a chair with white-knuckled hands, never taking her eyes from the blade. "There's a safe in the other room, I have jewels in here—"

"Money? Jewels?" he spat at her, suddenly angry. He lunged, and Padmé shut her eyes, trembling—but there was no impact as the knife tip traced a gentle pattern on her jaw. She heard him say, "If I wanted money I could have had it. You think that means anything to me? No—no. I want something else."

He seemed to be waiting for a reply, so Padmé forced herself to speak. "What, then?"

He leaned forward, keeping the knife's cold steel at her throat, and whispered in her ear, "You, Padmé."

In the deepest part of her mind, his words did not shock her. She felt she had almost known from what he wanted from the moment she had seen him come through that door. But knowing did nothing to quell the cold, violent terror that mounted over her, and it could not stop her from uttering a small cry.

"Don't be afraid," he murmured to her. One large hand with dirty fingernails came up to clumsily caress her shoulder, like a friend, like a lover. It stayed there, trailing over her skin, as he moved to stand behind her. "Don't be afraid."

"My husband," she managed to choke, "is coming back for me in a few minutes. If he finds you, he'll kill—"

"Liar!" he hissed at her, bringing the knife up sharply so that it was directly before Padmé's eyes, only centimeters from them, and she gasped. "Your pretty Jedi is waiting for you at the party. And we'll keep him waiting. You and I have other business here."

Her shoulders were bare, left exposed by the gown's design. She felt him bend his head, and then his lips touched her skin. Padmé was sure she could feel the place he had kissed swelling with poison, knew that if she looked at that spot she would see a dark, ugly mark. The revulsion that shuddered through her body then gave her sudden courage, a resolution that she would not accept this hideous fate. She could see the door—it was only a few feet from her, blocked by nothing but the blade that hovered between her and freedom.

Adrenaline exploded in her veins. In one sudden movement Padmé threw his arms off her, ducked under the knife he held and ran for the door, screaming for help. She knew the guards were stationed outside, if she could only reach them she would be safe, she would be safe—

A howl of rage erupted from behind, and without warning Padmé felt his full weight on her as he leapt at her. She screamed again, felt the knife slice a long trail down her cheek, and then he had grabbed her by the arm and slammed her into the wall so forcefully that for an instant she could see nothing but light.

"DON'T YOU DARE!" he bellowed in her ear, face contorted with fury. Dimly Padmé saw the knife waving wildly, close to her face, and she shrank away from it. She was only distantly aware of the tears running down her face. "DON'T YOU DARE RUN FROM ME!"

"P-please—please don't—" She was sobbing. Pleading was all she had left, but it only seemed to enrage him further. His knife made a long cut down the front of her dress, and after that it was only the work of a moment to rip the bodice open, fully exposing her breasts.

"You'll see—you'll see—" he was panting as he worked, his eyes feverishly taking in the sight. "You never read my letters, so you wouldn't know—it's for the best—"

* * *

"Certainly the Senator's work for the CCSA has been greatly appreciated. I wrote to tell her, but of course I had to come in person. By the way, do you know when she'll be arriving tonight? I had hoped to thank her myself…"

"She'll be here soon," Anakin assured the ambassador. "I would have accompanied her here myself, but unfortunately my security duties aren't limited to the Senator."

"Ah, of course," he nodded, stroking the wispy little beard at his chin thoughtfully. Just then the music changed; instead of being merely atmospheric, now there was a distinct rhythm to it, and everyone in the room knew what that meant. Those who were not dancing moved tactfully out of the way, while several happy couples streamed onto the floor. From the music, Anakin guessed an Alderaanian waltz, and he was not wrong. It was the dance he had always wished to share with Padmé in public, and had never been able to.

Women were laughing, heads thrown back in gaiety as their partners took them gently by the arm and held their waists. Diplomats and benefactors of all ages were invited to the fundraiser, but only the young danced. Together as they moved they made a delicate whirlwind of youth and beauty.

"If I were only twenty years younger," the ambassador sighed, and then he remembered who he was talking to. "And if you weren't already married to your Order."

"Perhaps," Anakin replied absently. He was watching the dancers not out of desire, but simple entrancement. The women's dresses swirled around them like wings, brightly colored, creating the illusion of a swarm of butterflies. He imagined Padmé among them, twirling to show off her gown and smiling at him from across the room.

* * *

He was at her feet now, hacking ragged strips from the hem of her gown. One length of torn beautiful blue shimmersilk, the dress she had thought to show Anakin and bring a smile to his face with, went around her wrists, binding them painfully tight behind her back. Another he forced into her mouth as a gag, tying it around the back of her head. When he shoved her she had no way to balance herself—Padmé stumbled and fell backwards, catching herself only by leaning back against the dresser on her elbows. She clung to the position awkwardly, tear-stained eyes fixed on her assailant. He came forward, unzipping his pants, and when he got so close to her that she could smell his hot breath on her cheek Padmé felt him, hard and wet, pressed against her thigh through the thin material of her tattered skirt.

"You deserve this," he told her in a hoarse whisper. His fingers were sweating on the knife's hilt. "You want this, you know you do. It's your punishment—"

Padmé's shoulders shook violently as her sobs grew. Her tears were soaking into the gag until the taste of salt was ever-present on her tongue. She could only shake her head, trying to look anywhere except his face.

He clutched her shoulder, the knife still before her eyes, and lifted the skirt. Then he rammed into her. Pain split through her body as though she were being ripped apart, and a strangled noise somewhere between a sob and a scream flew from her throat.

There was that mirror across the room. If only she could tell it to look away—but it kept on reflecting with indifference the nightmarish scene. She moaned instead, and wished to die.

* * *

Anakin's face reflected at him in the ornate mirror, spotlessly clean, that hung on the wall. The reflection bore a perplexed expression. Padmé was more than a half-hour late, something she was not known for under normal circumstances and certainly not when an event like this was taking place. He wasn't very worried, but anxious enough that he sought out the hostess. She found him first.

"Master Skywalker, I wanted to thank you for clearing up that small…disturbance, earlier," she said delicately, referring to what had almost been a brawl between a tipsy diplomat and a highly offended Mon Calamari.

"Of course, M'lady," Anakin said. "I wanted to ask you if you'd heard—"

"You have to expect unpleasantness to some degree with so many people in one place," she conceded, completely ignoring him, "but still, things could have gotten out of hand."

"It was my pleasure to help. Miss Varo, have you had any kind of message from Senator Amidala tonight?"

"Amidala? No, I'm afraid I haven't. Why, is something wrong?"

Anakin merely shrugged. He wasn't certain of anything yet; it was only a feeling he had, faint and ominous.

"It is odd, of course," said the young Miss Varo. "It isn't like her to be late, is it? And I know she was so looking forward to being here. Well, you know senators, don't you?" She giggled. "Always some boring business keeping them. My father—"

"Yes, of course," said Anakin, deciding that now it was his turn to cut her off. "If you'll excuse me, M'lady."

With a cursory bow he left her side and, with no aim in mind, found himself standing beside the refreshment table, looking back his reflected face in the mirror. It looked decidedly more strained now.

"_Carafi_, Master Jedi?" asked a servant, offering a tray bearing the Sullustan delicacy made of wild fowl's raw eggs. When Anakin did not immediately refuse, the young man pushed one into his hand and walked away. Anakin bit into the dessert, not hungry. It tasted like fear.

* * *

He was everywhere upon her now, his hands on her arms and stomach, his teeth biting harshly at her breast until he almost drew blood. Padmé whimpered; somehow, even though this was the least of his cruel indignities, it still was painful. He had pushed her down to the floor and now sat upon her like a housecat, proud of its catch.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his mouth drawing away from her breast. "He doesn't deserve you. _I_ love you—I love you…"

Even as she heard him say it Padmé could hear the same words in Anakin's voice, tender and sweet. She thought she would vomit, but fought down the feeling. Her mind was revolting, refusing to believe that any of this was real. Even her tears were beginning to dry as she lay there, unmoving, only waiting for him to finish. She believed with all her heart that she was dying, was, perhaps, already dead.

"I thought," he was telling her, his lips moving further up her neck, "we should get away from Coruscant. When I've taken care of your Jedi…"

Fresh terror welled up in her. Yesterday Padmé would have laughed at the thought of anyone threatening Anakin. But he had not been here to save her, and he had not stopped this man from hurting her. Could he save himself? She shook her head in protest, the first time she had responded at all in minutes, and earned for the motion a dizzying slap across the face.

"Don't defend him!" he raged at her suddenly, spitting words. His face was covered in sweat. "His false love—the lies he tells you—only an amusement to him—I know he's been stopping my letters—"

It was then, in the briefest of pauses, that they both heard a noise from the other room. Someone was there.

Padmé would have screamed again for help, but everything in the world seemed to be holding her back. There was a knife cutting into her back, hardly a sound could escape her gag, and some large, traitorous part of her brain was suddenly muttering, _We're so tired, so tired, just forget it. He'll leave us alone soon enough. Sit still, be still, shut up. Let him do anything. Who cares anymore?_

The apartment seemed to have gone quiet again, and Padmé's attacker seemed almost to relax when suddenly, unmistakably, they heard Threepio's voice.

"—can't understand why the door was locked, but of course you'll want to make certain. The Senator is busy, I think. Please forgive my uncertainty, I've been powered down for the past few hours."

A look of pure, twisted hatred crossed his face for an instant, and Padmé cowered. Blind fear was roaring in her mind now, blocking out all other thought—she was certain she would not live to see the end of the next five minutes. The knife dug into her back, drawing more blood. He bent down to her, and Padmé nearly choked.

"You never saw my face," he hissed, "and if you tell anyone, I'll kill you—you and your pretty Jedi. "

Then he was gone.

He was gone, out the window. Padmé didn't see how, and she didn't care.

He was gone.

The knocking at her bedroom door ceased. Muffled voices, then a foot burst through the heavy paneled wood. The knob turned, and the door opened. Threepio was aghast at the destruction.

"There's no need for that, really, the Senator—"

The one thing in the universe that could make Threepio shut up turned out to be the sight of his mistress, shivering and close to naked on the ground, covered in blood and sweat and saliva, bound and gagged. When one of the guards untied the gag, Padmé only remembered seeing his ashen face inches from hers before she slid into a dead faint.

* * *

Her room was dark, and her guards were gone. He called her name, but there was no answer. Anakin should have simply assumed that she had been late in dressing and that, even now, she was on her way to the fundraiser. He should go back, apologize to the hostess for leaving so early with such a vague explanation.

But a pained, frantic thrumming in the Force, faint as it was, kept him there with one hand on his lightsaber, peering into the darkness. He knew his way here well enough so that he easily sidestepped the sofa and found the doorway to her bedroom.

The door opened at his touch, and instantly Anakin's throat closed, his well-trained eyes taking in every obvious sign of struggle. His first thought was of intense regret—_Forgive me, my darling, I wasn't here to protect you._ He had not even a sign of where she was.

As if on cue, Threepio walked through the closet door. Anakin grabbed on him like a drowning man on a log. "Threepio, what's going on? Where's Padmé?"

If the droid had eyes that were avertable, he would have averted them now. As it was, his lamplight eyes shone into Anakin's as he said, in an anguished tone, "Master Anakin, there's—I'm afraid there's been an incident."

"An incident? What the kriff do you mean?" Anakin snapped, his temper immediately flaring, as it did when he was afraid.

Poor Threepio was helpless, his sense of decorum recoiling from the tale he had to tell; but he had no choice.

"The guards say they heard an explosion down the street—they felt it was their duty to help. When they returned, I met them at the door. I had been powered down in the sitting room. They insisted that they enter her bedroom, and when they did…"

* * *

When Anakin reached the nearest medical center—Threepio had told him where she was—his fingernails were digging into his fist like little poniards, leaving behind blue half-moon shapes in his palm when he opened his hand to run fingers through his hair. His breath came in shallow bursts, just on the edge of hyperventilation. Only all-consuming worry for Padmé's sake and safety kept him sane, kept him from giving in to the unspeakable feelings that hovered at the edge of his vision.

He asked a healer for directions to Padmé's room, saw her look at her chart and murmur to herself, "Oh, yes," in a regretful tone before answering and pointing him in the right direction. Then there was nothing to do but find her, nothing but to see her…

She was lying in the hospital's starched white bed, on her side facing away from the door. Anakin couldn't understand why she chose to lie like that until a nurse lifted the back of her gown, and Anakin saw the deep, deceptively short cut that decorated her back like a battle scar. The pragmatic, combat-trained part of his brain saw that, had the cut been perhaps an inch deeper, it would have been fatal.

The nurse, a young woman with straw-blonde hair, proceeded to clean the wound, and then Anakin remembered that this was his Padmé.

He moved toward her and grabbed her arm so tightly that she winced. Her face was white, devoid of expression. He couldn't have said what his own face looked like, but it caused the nurse to duck her head immediately.

"What happened?"

Padmé's hair was damp and pulled back into a loose braid at the nape of her neck. Her free hand rested over her abdomen, clutching at the loose gown. If Anakin had been in another place, unable to sense the sickening despair that hung over this room, and seen only a picture of her, he might have thought she had just given birth. She didn't answer him.

"Padmé, what happened?" he demanded of her, more harshly this time. Even now he didn't really believe it. Things that came from Threepio's mouth were hardly ever to be believed in full, and he was ready to hear it—waiting—prepared to force it out of her, the admission that the droid had exaggerated and that the situation was not as it had seemed.

Padmé looked up at him, her small jaw clenched, and Anakin met her gaze with unintended harshness. The right side of her face was bandaged, and Anakin noticed the raw ends of broken skin beneath the gauze. He could see every emotion that passed behind her eyes, anger and fire, and then—hatred?—and then, so slowly that he almost missed it, all other feelings died and melted into pure, helpless defeat.

"Anakin," she said, in a very small voice, "He hurt me."

Her hands were held empty in midair, and Anakin would have been a monster not to take them and kiss them and hold them tightly as he did. Padmé's eyes squeezed shut, her mouth clenched in a grimace, and she began to sob harder than it seemed she had ever done before. Only a fraction of the wretched pain that grew within her gut could leave her, no matter how many tears she poured onto Anakin's shoulder.

Anakin was experiencing an alien and altogether unpleasant sensation. Never in his life had he been so helpless, unable to heal her, unable to do anything but hold her and hope that it was helping in some way. So he held her and murmured nonsense, "Sweet, darling, it'll be okay, it'll be okay," and Padmé buried her face in his chest and cried.

At length, when Padmé still hurt but had no more tears, the sedative the med center had given her took over. Within seconds she had fallen in a drugged, dreamless sleep, the only peace afforded her. Anakin released her, and she sank back into the thin blankets. Only then did he become aware again of the straw-haired nurse who stood unobtrusively in the corner, watching, hearing—knowing.

Awkwardly Anakin straightened, aware of the situation and, at the same time, hating that he had to consider the public eye even now. She had seen very much—too much—and though his mind raced he couldn't think of any way to turn his words of comfort, Padmé's tears, every touch between them, into something platonic.

He had some vague idea of making her forget what she had seen and what it meant, but as he stepped toward her, the words that stumbled out of his mouth were: "Don't tell anyone—please."

The straw-haired nurse shook her head, her wide eyes on his. "I wouldn't dream of it," she murmured, and slipped out of the room.

Then Anakin was alone with Padmé, who was fast asleep. He sat in the hard-backed chair beside her bed. They were waiting for them at the fundraiser, he remembered vaguely. He looked down at his hands, breathing heavily, and wondered how his world had changed in the space of an hour.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

What now?

Anakin's eyes fell upon the bandage on Padmé's cheek, and for the first time he thought to wonder how it got there. His skin went cold when he understood it. There had been a weapon of some kind. They threatened her—hurt her—someone hurt my, _my_ Padmé.

These were the dangerous thoughts, the ones that made his vision go red. With a great effort Anakin wrenched himself away from them, sating himself with the promise that there would be a time for anger, and the precious vengeance that Jedi were forbidden. But not now. Now Padmé was all that mattered.

He gazed around the room, seeking a distraction, but she seemed to fill it all. If he looked toward the door he could see her lying there—if he looked down her tears, not yet dry, remained on his tunic. Anakin's choice fell to either the blank wall beside him or the vid-screen. He chose the VS.

The remote control was missing, but to flip channels mentally took less effort than blinking. He went past a popular sitcom about two bumbling krayt dragon hunters, a commercial for life insurance—sometimes there were athletic channels he enjoyed watching, but he couldn't seem to find any right now. He heard a noise outside the door, and his head shot up, but no one entered, and when he returned his attention to the VS he found it on a soap opera called_ Burning Destinies._

_Oh, what the kriff?_ Anakin thought savagely, and left it there.

He spent a large chunk of time staring at the screen, breathing heavily through his nose. One of the characters was a Jedi. His name was Jaiden Kilmar; he was ridiculously handsome, with a green lightsaber (computerized, of course, as civilians were only rarely permitted to handle actual lightsabers). His fiancée had been recently kidnapped by Mandalorian slavers, and Jaiden was on an urgent and dangerous quest to save her, complete with flashbacks of the two of them kissing in a corner and a romantic ballad in the background.

It looked like the writers had completely ignored the fact that Jedi were forbidden to love—or perhaps that had been dealt with already in a previous episode.

Insipid as it was, Anakin watched it determinedly. To do otherwise was to let his attention waver and fall onto other things. But after a while—as Jaiden held his lightsaber to his arch-rival's neck—he heard a faint beeping noise, and realized with a start that it was his commlink.

"This is Anakin Skywalker."

"Master Skywalker, I've finally found you." The faintly accented voice, Anakin realized after a second's confusion, belonged to the Nubian Queen, Apailana.

"Is there something I can help you with, Your Majesty?" Anakin asked her.

"I hope so. I've been trying to contact Senator Amidala for the past hour. There's been an incident at our embassy on Coruscant, from what I understand. A break-in. The thieves have been caught, and they don't seem to have been after anything important, but I thought it would be best if she could make certain tonight that no papers of hers are missing. I was under the impression that she was at a fundraiser tonight—I had hoped she would be there as I requested."

What now?

The question pounded in his ears in time with his pulse. It was only just beginning to dawn on him that this could not be kept secret. This was not one more exciting difficulty that could be shared on two pairs of shoulders. Some people _had_ to know—Apailana had to know.

"Your Highness, the Senator wanted to be there. There was...I don't know how...she was overtaken by..." Anakin shook himself mentally. It was most important now, of all times, that he speak in terms of detachment. How would a simple bodyguard say this out loud? "The Senator was accosted by a man in her apartment this evening before the fundraiser. She was—violated, and suffered several injuries, most of them minor. She's at the med center now."

There was silence on the other end. Anakin wouldn't have expected anything else. "I...I cannot believe this," Apailana breathed, sounding almost human for the first time since Anakin had met her. While he was trying to think up a reply, he heard her again, stronger this time. "Let me see her."

"Your Highness, Pa—the Senator is under sedation. She's asleep at the moment."

"Let me see her."

Anakin had learned a long time ago that it was a bad idea to argue with Nubian adolescents, especially ones that ruled planets. He transferred the comm call to the holoprojector that sat unobtrusively on a corner table, and soon Apailana's flickering image, only a few feet high, was visible beside the bed. The Queen looked at Padmé with an expression impossible to gauge through the makeup and the hologram.

"How could this have happened?" Apailana asked softly. Anakin could hear the tears that sprang to her eyes in her voice. "Did you feel no warning in the Force?"

A wave of guilt slammed into Anakin's chest, so suddenly that he almost cried out. He had felt something, hadn't he? And then ignored it until it was too late…

"The Senator is not attuned to the Force," he murmured numbly. "That makes it extremely difficult to sense her emotions when she is away." If he had not loved her, perhaps he would not have sensed anything at all.

"I see." A pause. Despite the situation, Anakin found it hard to shake the awkwardness that came with being interrogated by a 15-year-old. "I was under the impression that Senator Amidala was recently put under a round-the-clock guard. Were her guards away?"

Oddly enough, that was the first time the thought had occurred to Anakin. Where had they been? He hoped, for their sakes, that their throats had been cut by the intruder. But the time for vengeance had not come—_not yet,_ he told the murderous thoughts that buzzed in his ear like flies—and Apailana was still there, gazing down at Padmé with such obvious sadness in her face now that Anakin could no longer bear it.

"Your Majesty, please forgive me," he cried suddenly. "I've failed you—I failed her. Forgive me, please—I can't—" _I can't forgive myself,_ he thought.

Apailana turned to look at him. Under her gaze, Anakin felt more wretched than he could remember feeling in his life.

"I do not wish to blame you, Master Skywalker," she said, very slowly. "I know you; you are not incompetent. I believe—would like to believe," she corrected herself, "that you are not to blame. But an investigation must take place all the same."

Anakin nodded, licking his lips. "Your Highness, I realize that it's not my place to speak for the Senator, but surely a public investigation..."

Understanding him, Apailana interrupted. "My love for Senator Amidala is great," she told him. "The investigation will be as private and discreet as possible."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

With a sigh, Apailana put a hand to her forehead in sadness. "I must go," she said at last. "There are ambassadors from Sullust waiting for me, and I have promised to meet with them. But I will call back as soon as I am able." She paused, then her gaze went up to meet Anakin's once more. "Master Skywalker, please take care of her."

The hologram disappeared, leaving Anakin to sink once more into his chair. The sitcom was still humming in the background, a mess of dramatic pauses and blurted confessions, but he had even less desire—if that were possible—to watch it than before. So he merely sat there, attempting to clear his mind as a Jedi ought to do. He succeeded, at least, in dimming down the tear-inducing, passionate frustration that he felt, until it was lessened and numbed, lending him a lethargic mindset.

Time passed slowly, in odd jerks and movements, while Anakin stared steadfastly at the bedstead. At length he heard a door open, and the nurse came back in.

It wasn't the same one as before. This woman was older, with lines in the corners of her eyes and gray hairs at her temples. Her uniform was a simply-cut white tunic, and her face wore a motherly expression.

"I brought a tray for you," she said, her voice soft. It was a moment before Anakin realized she was talking to him. "You should eat."

"M'not hungry," he mumbled without looking at her. It didn't occur to him to wonder why they had changed nurses until he felt a hand on his arm, and looked up to see her standing over him.

"I'm so sorry," she said sincerely. "I've seen this all before, but there's nothing I can say that will make it hurt any less."

It seemed such a strange thing to say that Anakin found himself, for a moment, utterly speechless. That was all right, though, because she continued to talk, looking into his eyes.

"You can't blame yourself. You know that, don't you? Sometimes evil things just happen."

"Who are you?" he asked bluntly. She gave him a small smile.

"My name is Lina. I'm in charge of crisis counseling for this center. I'd like to talk to you, if you'll let me."

He drew back instinctively. "You want to talk to her, not to me."

"No, I think I'd like to talk to you," said Lina, kneeling down beside his chair. "I know how you're feeling right now. It hurts the husband just as much as—"

Anakin stared at her. "I am _not_ her husband," he said through clenched teeth. Lina touched his arm.

"Renouncing her isn't—"

But Anakin had already stood up, shoved his way past her, and left the room—left the med center and found his way to his speeder. He sat down behind the wheel, shaking before he realized it.

It was only natural, of course, for her to assume that the pale and anxious man who hovered near Padmé's bedside was her husband. It only made sense. And now that Lina had stumbled accidentally upon the truth that was hidden by deception, she instantly became a threat.

Only now was he beginning to realize how dangerous it was for him to be near Padmé now. He detested the thought, but it was true. A bodyguard would not treat his employer with as much love and reverence as he did Padmé—would never be so severely affected by an attack like this on a mere client—and at the same time Anakin knew he would never be able to restrain himself and continue to play a part.

He swore loudly and slammed his palm down on the edge of the steering wheel. In his rage he had inadvertently lent Force-strength to his already powerful blow; when he raised his hand, there was a dent in the metal.

Now, of all times, he could not be with her. Now, when she needed him most, he could do nothing more than go home.

Anakin drove back to the Temple, feeling that everything in the world was wrong. He knew that Padmé would not wake up at least until morning, if then. He knew that her attacker, whoever he was, would not be able to touch her while she was there. But nothing helped. His only comfort, small though it was, remained that once he reached the Temple, he passed no one that knew him well enough to ask about the awful expression on his face.

* * *

He wanted to sleep that night; instead, he lay in bed for three and a half-hours, eyes wide open, until the sun rose. When it was light enough to him to make out colors, Anakin got up, changed clothes, and went back to the center.

Her guards were still there, sitting patiently in a waiting room until they had further orders; if they hadn't been, they would have done well to consider themselves dead. Even as it was, however, they had good reason to fear when Anakin found them.

"Tell me what happened," said Anakin, in a voice so low it was almost a growl. The two guards looked at each other. Though they were both at least ten years his senior, right now they were genuinely frightened of him. Anakin could do that to people.

"We were standing guard, Master Skywalker," one finally said, "on your orders. No one had gone in or out since you left, but then a man with a package came by. He said he had something to deliver to the Senator—"

"And you let him in without question."

"He had credentials, sir! A badge that you yourself inspected. Everything seemed in order, we had no reason to believe that anything was wrong."

"No, not even when you heard screaming from the inside and the sounds of a struggle," said Anakin, bitter acid dripping from his words. He knew their story already—Threepio had filled him in—but right now he despised the both of them, and making them suffer seemed only right.

"Master Skywalker, please," said the other guard. "We never heard anything from inside. Less than two minutes after we let the man in, we heard the sound of an explosion from outside the building. The, uh, the bomb squadron leader told us that a device had been embedded into the outside wall of an apartment building across the street, on a time-release system. Several people on the walkway were injured when it went off, and a few were trapped underneath debris. I—that is, we, sir—we felt it was our duty to help the wounded. When we returned to the Senator's apartment, we did hear some noises from inside, and thought we'd better make sure the deliveryman had left. Then, ah…"

He trailed off, not daring to finish the story. Anakin did not look at either of them for a moment.

"Master Skywalker—"

"Do not," Anakin said, his voice very low, "speak."

The silence in the room was almost tangible, hanging over them like the promise of death. At last, Anakin deigned to look at them.

"Your miserable incompetence nearly cost the Senator her life. Both of you are dismissed from her service. Get out before I do something I might regret."

They hadn't expected anything else. Subdued, the guards left the room, and Anakin watched them go with shoulders heaving.

"Master Jedi," said a voice from behind him. Anakin turned to see the straw-haired nurse from the day before. The sight of her made him remember everything that she knew, and a portion of his anger trickled down into anxiety. But she gave him no sign that she recalled anything unusual. "Senator Amidala is awake, if you wish to speak with her."

The breath flew from Anakin's lungs as he nodded. The distance of a few yards between him and his wife suddenly seemed like a gauntlet, wrought as it was by nerves and fear of the unknown. Just before he opened the door he heard his mind composing a frantic prayer: _Please let me say the right things to her, please let her be all right—help me. I don't know what to do._

She was still in bed, one hand running thoughtfully over the bandage on her cheek. She looked up when he came in, and her shoulders seemed to lift. Her mouth opened, as if to speak, but she didn't seem to know what to say. Anakin broke the silence, crossing the room to her side.

"How do you feel?" he asked her. It seemed a childish question, and awkward. Padmé considered before answering.

"Well enough…for now," she told him. It seemed to be the truth. Anakin would have known if she were lying, and she looked all right apart from her injuries. Maybe—the naïve thought flashed across his mind—maybe this would all right itself. Maybe she would be released from the med center in a few days and they could go back to playing their roles.

Then he broke from the fantasy, and cursed himself for his foolishness.

"What time is it?" she asked him. "I must have missed the fundraiser."

At that, Anakin allowed himself a small smile and a half-hearted chuckle. "You did, by a few hours. It was last night."

"Oh." Padmé frowned, tragedies forgotten for a moment. "I should have been there. Apailana asked me to go specifically."

Anakin said, "I already talked with her. She's quite understanding, given the…given the circumstances."

And just like that, it was impossible for either of them to ignore the situation they were in. They had no choice but to speak of more serious things. This time, Padmé was the brave one.

"Anakin, what are we going to do now?" she asked him. Her dark eyes looked into his with a curious pleading in them for answers, like a child might look to her father when not understanding. Anakin took a deep breath.

"In a few days, you'll be well enough to be released. Then…it's up to you." He looked at her, uncertain. "Do you want to go back to work?"

"No," Padmé said emphatically. There was a pause. "Yes." Then she shook her head. Distress clouded her eyes and furrowed her brow, and her shoulders hunched as though she were shying away from something. "I don't know…I'm sorry, I just don't."

"Never mind," Anakin said softly, leaning forward to put a hand on her cheek. "You don't have to think about anything right now, Padmé. I'll take care of this."

For the smallest fraction of a second, so briefly that another man might have dismissed it as delusional imagination, he saw that same cold, hateful look in Padmé's eyes—almost as if to say, "Can you?" It unnerved him so much that Anakin drew his hand back; but he consoled himself with the fact that she was in pain, and grieving, and so would be naturally antagonistic to almost anyone at this point.

It was gone in an instant, and her face was sad and sweet once again. "Later," she agreed, nodding. "I can manage later. I just need some time now…"

"I understand," Anakin told her. "And in a few days, things'll start going back to normal." He felt safe again in rubbing her shoulder. "Once you're out of the center, no one will question that I'm around you more since—since that happened," he finished lamely. "And when we're back at your apartment—"

"No!" The word exploded from her as though from a cannon, and its force surprised Anakin so that he forgot what he was saying for a moment. Padmé grabbed onto his wrist. "Anakin, I don't want to go back there. Don't make me go back into that room. I'll remember everything, I won't be able to sleep—"

"It's okay, it's okay," Anakin managed. "You don't have to go back there if you don't want to. We can find another place. It can be anywhere you want. Don't worry about it, Padmé. I promise you, I'll handle it."

She actually smiled at him this time. For a few short moments the silence between them was reminiscent of days past, when they, like every other couple in love since the beginning of time, were happy to do nothing but look into each other's eyes. But it wasn't long before Padmé had to break the silence.

"What time is it?"

Anakin checked the chronometer on the wall behind her. "Almost 0900 hours. Why?"

"The resident counselor wants to talk to me. She said she'd come around this time."

"Does she have brownish hair?"

"Yes, but there's some white in it. She said her name was…" Padmé paused, thinking. "L-Liyra. No, Lina."

Under his breath, Anakin spat a curse. "Love, I have to go. I can't be around that woman. But I'll come back when I can, I promise."

He stood and bent down to kiss his wife on the lips.

And Padmé, drawing back, said in a strange, high-pitched voice, "Please don't."

Anakin froze, staring at her as though he had just seen her for the first time. He felt as though he were suddenly face-to-face with a different person. He nodded, slowly, and swallowed. Feeling suddenly awkward, he drew back.

"I'll come back later," he repeated. Then he ran, from Lina and from Padmé.

* * *

Anakin spent the next few days in a nightmare. His time was divided between sitting beside Padmé at the med center and anxiously killing time at the Temple while trying to pretend that nothing was wrong. He slept only when he was so exhausted that his body refused to go on without rest, and that wasn't often.

It was getting more difficult to see his wife without running into Lina. The woman was hovering constantly around Padmé as though she were the bait for a trap Lina was setting. Anakin knew that she meant well, but her determination to speak with him was a direct course for disaster, and so he had no choice but to avoid both of them.

Meanwhile, Apailana's investigation was taking place. Discreetly, as the Queen had promised, Anakin was questioned, and told that Padmé's guards—former guards—were being questioned as well. Anakin was able to get the details of their search for the culprit from Apailana's men, but they knew barely more than he.

The apartment window to which the time bomb had been closest was rented to a man by the name of Cam Ryd, but further investigation had proved that no such person had ever lived on Coruscant. Ryd, or whatever his real name was, hadn't been seen since that night, and there was no news of his whereabouts, but they did get a physical description from his landlord. Short, heavily built, with thin lips and a wide nose. No one had dared to ask Padmé yet for a more detailed report.

Before, the threat of discovery had been an annoyance, a nuisance that they both gladly bore until an unspecified future time when, for reasons unknown, they would no longer have to hide their marriage. Now it was a curse, a wicked burden that seemed at times to literally smother him until Anakin could not breathe for worry and to beat him down until he could not stand under its weight. At the time when he wanted nothing more in the world to be with her, when everything in him was screaming to comfort her, it was the most dangerous thing he could do.

But Anakin still came to see Padmé as faithfully as he could without arousing suspicion. For a few days she would smile and talk, brave as she had always been, refusing to let a monster's actions destroy her life. But then the day after that she would be despondent, speaking little and worrying at the sleeves of her gown with disproportionate care. When she was like that, Anakin felt acutely that sense of helplessness—he hated those days.

Once, six days after she had been admitted, Anakin came in to find her face and arms raw and red and bleeding in places so that it stung when he touched her. She was sobbing. In a fit, he was told, she had grabbed a rough sponge usually used for cleaning floors and brutally, mercilessly scrubbed at herself until the nurses had come and wrested her tool away from her. They upped her dosage of pain medication for that day, and she cried until he was gone.

That was the day that Anakin wept, alone in his room, seething with hatred for Padmé's attacker and with his own self-loathing. One solitary thread of comfort kept him sane: _It will all be over soon. It will all be over soon._ It had to be. No grief could last forever. He didn't need to see the end; he just wanted to know that it existed.

And then, eight days after Padmé had been admitted—she would be released the day after tomorrow—Anakin went to see her again. There was some trepidation in his mind, though he hated to admit it, but when he entered the room she seemed quite rational, if somewhat downcast, for which no one could blame her.

"I spoke with the Queen again today," she said, looking up as Anakin came to her bedside. "She says they've finished with the investigation."

"And?" said Anakin, sitting down and scooting the chair closer. Padmé's fingers closed around his hand that rested on the mattress and held them.

"She doesn't blame you. How could she?"

"What about the…the, uh…"

Padmé shook her dark head. "Nothing."

Anakin hesitated, then plunged forward. "Have you told them yet what he looks like? Maybe, if they had a better description…"

"No, I haven't."

"Why?" Anakin demanded before he could stop himself.

"Because I'm afraid—!" Padmé stopped, checked herself. Her eyes were full of something Anakin did not recognize, but he could see that she desperately wanted him to understand.

"Afraid of him?" Anakin asked, trying to be helpful.

Padmé shook her head again. Slowly, she muttered, "You don't know how I hate him. I dream about hurting him. I've never—" She took a breath, glanced up. "It frightens me. I didn't think I could hate like this. And I'm afraid—of myself. Of what I want to do. And what I want you to do."

It took a moment of long breaths through his nose for Anakin to reconcile himself to this. It was too late to undo anything—vengeance was his only consolation. He couldn't wait forever, but he could wait for her. "That's all right," he said. "That's all right."

Padmé squeezed his hand again. "I asked her, and she said that we could stay in the lake house at Naboo for a while. You remember?"

"Of course, love," said Anakin.

"No other guards, no nurses—just us. Like it was last time."

At that, a smile broke across Anakin's face. It felt strange and alien to him. "Darling, that's wonderful! You can wait for a few weeks before you go back to work."

"I think it'll be longer than that."

"However long you want."

Padmé spent the next few seconds visibly gathering courage. The hand that was on Anakin's held it tighter, and the other came up to worry at the braid on her shoulder. Then she blurted out, "How about nine months?"

Any woman would have understood the significance of this immediately. It took Anakin only a second longer. Disbelief displayed openly on his face for a moment. "You're not—Padmé, that's—love, that's amazing!"

He bent to kiss her again, but stopped, remembering just in time; and he noticed the look in her eyes. It was pained, as frayed and stressed as the hem of her gown. It was a look that told him he was missing something.

An evil thought entered his mind.

That couldn't be.

_When was the last time you slept at her apartment? Two weeks ago? Three? Too long, too long._

No, it couldn't be—couldn't be—couldn't be

"Padmé…" he said thickly, "Tell me…"

Another tear—how many had there been now?—fell down her cheek.

And Anakin knew.

He could feel himself beginning to shake. Padmé's small form blurred before him as he cast his eyes around the room. It was too small to contain him now, but where could he go that was large enough? From a great distance he could hear her saying, "They only told me today, I didn't know what to do…"

He wanted to punch someone, break something, see something shatter, but there was nothing readily at hand, and anything he did now would only make him angrier because it was so inadequate. Red was falling over his vision again, and below him he could see her there, his love and his hate, the cause of everything—

—_not her. Not her, not her, not her._

He didn't remember standing, but he sat now, his hands clutching at his bowed head as though for dear life. Padmé was very, very quiet. She was afraid of him.

_Say something. Comfort her. Tell her it's all right; tell her everything will be—_

"Get rid of it."

A pause.

"What?"

"Get—rid—of—it," said Anakin, through gritted teeth. He looked up at her through his fingers and saw the horrified expression on her face when she understood.

"No, Anakin, no! You want me to k—" She couldn't say the word, but he said it for her.

"Kill—yes, kill it then!" His voice climbed swiftly from a growl to a shout. "Shavvit, Padmé, it's a clump of cells. Do you _want_ to remember this forever? Do you want to give birth to a monster?"

"A child!" she protested. Those ever-present tears were back in her eyes. For an instant he hated them, hated both the tears and the eyes. But her voice was as strong as his. "You're a hypocrite. You told me that every life was precious. This is a life!"

"It's an abomination, that came from an abomination!" He was raging at her, didn't want to, couldn't stop himself. They had never fought like this before.

"It's a life," Padmé repeated. "And I won't take it. Good can come from an evil thing. Anakin—" Her voice broke, and she let out a stifled sob. "Do you really want to kill my child?"

Anakin's instinctive, resounding answer was YES. But something in him gave the strength of will to take a moment's pause, to think, to breathe.

No, not to kill it for the sake of killing. Only to let things be the way they were, and if a life was the price they had to pay, then so be it.

Falling to his knees beside her bed, he took her hand in both of his, covered it, kissed it. "If I say yes," he murmured, "can you still love me?"

Padmé, trembling, whispered, "My Anakin would never kill a baby."

He didn't want to kill it. Could he do anything else?

He waited a long time before he spoke. "Maybe," he said slowly, "maybe I'm not as strong as I thought I was. I can fight and fly and everything the Jedi need me to do—but I don't know if I can do this." He had already decided, but to say the words was the hardest thing he'd ever done. "I love you, Padmé. And I'll go with you to the lake house. And I—I won't ask you again, about that." He licked his lips. "But don't ask me to love the—that thing. I can't do it. Is that…is that enough?"

For Anakin, who had offered up his life more times than he could count to save complete strangers, it was the greatest sacrifice he knew how to make, and Padmé understood that.

"Yes," she told him. "It's enough. It's more than enough. Thank you."

He tried to smile but couldn't manage it. The beast inside of him was still roaring, dying for some release after over a week of torture, and now this…

Anakin stood up. "I have to go," he said shortly. "I'll come back later…but I need to go now." Without waiting for her to speak he detached himself from her hand and walked out the door.

He stopped for a few seconds, looked around.

That was funny. Everything in this alien world, in which Padmé was pregnant with another man's child, looked exactly the same as it did in the old one.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: I figure I'd best apologize for the incredible lateness of this chapter right off the bat, before you guys lynch me (or worse, leave me). I have no excuse. Well, I sort of do. I have two. My first is that I just finished my first semester at college, so unfortunately I've had some other priorities. And my second is that, as I said in the first chapter, this is a new thing that I'm trying with my writing, so it doesn't some as easily to me as my previous works. So, that's all I have. Anyway, once again, sorry for the wait. Hopefully this chapter is at least partly worth it.

* * *

**

The next few days consisted of packing, of planning, and—in Anakin's case—pacing. There was nothing for him to do but to pace, hours and hours around the Temple. Thoughts ran incessantly in his mind in a tormenting, monotonous train, interrupted only when someone spoke to him and he was forced to answer.

Meditation provided some small comfort, but clearing his mind completely seemed impossible. There was a pause, a tentative peace, and then as though he had been struck by lightning Anakin remembered that there was something in his life worth worrying about, and to ignore it felt almost like a lack of respect for its enormity.

He and Padmé didn't talk much during this time. On the few occasions that he visited her, the distance between them only widened. He was lost for words when at her side, because everything he tried to say nearly came out an accusation—"How could you do this to me? I thought you loved me!"—and he only just managed to swallow it. And Padmé, he knew, was afraid of him—too afraid, sometimes, even to speak for fear of making things worse.

They arrived on Naboo in the middle of the night, the same day that Padmé was released, because they had nowhere else to go. Padmé still refused to go back to her apartment, and Anakin could hardly take her in at the Temple. Probably a complete change of scenery was best for both of them, anyway.

There was silence as they traveled—silence when they reached the house—silence as they stood in the entryway, pretending to admire the ornate sand-colored tiling on the walls like any normal couple. They unpacked on the double bed side by side, worlds apart, and the gulf between them kept filling up with every word they didn't say.

Anakin could feel himself falling away from her, and he fought the urge, once again, to simply lose his mind and start breaking things because everything was so shavving wrong. It was easier, so much easier, to break things than to fix them. But here he was, all the same…

They dressed, sat down on opposite sides of the bed, Padmé combing out her hair over her shoulders like a dark, tangled curtain. Anakin looked over at her.

"Are you okay, sleeping—here?" he asked, his voice hoarse from the disuse it had endured today. The unspoken addendum, "with me," was heard. She nodded, and gave him a faint smile.

"I'm all right," she told him. "Thank you."

The gulf stretched a little further; a muscle in Anakin's temple twitched. On an impulse, he reached forward and took her hand. She didn't flinch away, which he took as an encouraging sign. He swallowed.

"I love you," he said sincerely. "Remember that. I love you, Padmé."

It sounded childish to him, and probably to her as well, like a young boy sensing his mother's pain and offers her the only comfort he has at his disposal. Regardless, a real smile spread across Padmé's face for the first time in days, though it lasted just a moment. Tentatively, waiting for the signal to stop, Anakin leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

Padmé's hand tightened on his. "I love you, too," she replied softly.

It felt like a start, a step in the right direction, and something like hope sent Anakin to sleep that night. But beneath the blankets and the cover of night, he heard her heart breaking again—and turned his back, helpless. Again.

* * *

The next morning had a peculiar feel to it, something Anakin noticed the second he opened his eyes. He knew that nothing had changed, that Padmé was still pregnant, that the child was still not his; but the weight of the worry that had plagued him, bearing down on him till he thought he would sink into the ground, was gone.

Anakin sat up, enjoying the sudden ease with which his limbs moved. More than likely, this change was due to nothing more than the change of scenery, waking up in one of those few places that had no negative associations. He was more glad than he knew to be away from Coruscant, and especially from the hospital bed that had held his wife prisoner.

For now, though, the reason for this relief escaped him, and he didn't bother trying to find it. Pulling a light tunic over his head, Anakin left the room without waking Padmé. Lost for a destination, he wandered through the hushed, dim hallways until he found himself almost outdoors, at the door to a low balcony overlooking the lake.

The instant his feet touched the surface, as soon as he stepped outside, he remembered this. Snatches of memories clawed at him.

"_Ani? You look so handsome. My son…my grown-up son…"_

"_Stay with me, Mom. Everything—"_

He shook his head, sharply, hoping to dislodge the memories. They were old now, and their old stabbing pain had dissipated into a faint ache in the back of his mind. He leaned over the railing, hands gripping the cold stone, and looked down into the water that, in morning's faint, gray, sunless light, looked pitch black.

He closed his eyes. Could smell grass, lake water—could smell cold. His bare feet shifted on the stone. Could smell stars, soon to die until their resurrection the following night.

It widened, tugging outward, pushing until it was no longer confined to the lake house they inhabited. Some miles away, a blossom farmer was already awake. The season for blossom wine was almost over, so he gathered the last of his crop today with his wife. Wondered whether next year would be a good one. Wondered who had taken the house up on the hill on the lake. Wondered if the newcomers would be interested in buying a jug or two. Tourists could always pay extra.

Then it moved again, this time getting smaller and more focused. Anakin felt where it was going, and felt afraid, but, unwillingly, let it go where it wanted until he found himself approaching a room, a bed, a woman's form. Her eyes were fluttering agitatedly, her breath small and uneven, and he could sense the restlessness with which she slept.

Anakin had absolutely no desire to see what she saw.

"_Don't be afraid." His hand, dirty, rough, crawling over her skin like spiders' legs. "Don't be afraid." The knife, glowing and gleaming. "Don't be afraid." The pain, the huge, all-consuming pain, when he dug into her and ripped out her heart. "Don't be afraid. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you—"_

With a powerful effort Anakin wrenched himself away from Padmé's dream, and the meditation fell to the ground in pieces. He found himself shaking with pure, primal rage even before his eyes had refocused, gazing down at the water unseeing. "Don't show me anymore," he hissed through clenched teeth. But there was no indication that the Force would heed him, or, indeed, was even bothering to listen. In anger, one useless fist slammed against the wall, but left no trace that it had been. Made him angrier.

Deep breaths brought Anakin back to earth. Above him the sky was beginning to glow gold over the horizon, and it was light enough that he could use his eyes to navigate rather than the Force. He went back inside, wondering if he would ever have a peaceful meditation while on Naboo.

Padmé was sitting at the kitchen counter when he returned. She was a fraction of an inch too short for the stool on which she sat, so her bare feet were swinging just above the floor. She was drinking something from a wooden cup, and her eyes swung upwards over the rim at his entrance.

"How'd you sleep?" Anakin asked her, more from habit than anything else. Padmé lowered the cup before answering.

"Fine," she answered. Anakin almost retorted with the knowledge that she was lying, then bit it back, swallowed it. No good could come from that.

"What's that?" he asked instead.

"Just juma juice," she answered, shrugging. "I found some in the fridge. I don't know how old it is, but it tastes okay."

Anakin investigated. "Should you be drinking this?" he asked, peering into the jug of yellow liquid. "We don't know who was here last. Could've been a Gungan or something."

"I'm sure the Queen has restocked it for us since then. Besides, nothing wrong with Gungan germs," Padmé added, smiling lightly. "For all we know, Gungan spit is an antioxidant."

Anakin snorted. "You knew Jar-Jar as well as I did. He wasn't anti- anything; he was just annoying."

"Be nice," Padmé chided him. "He was—"

Anakin looked at her.

"You know what? Never mind," she said sheepishly, palms raised in defeat. "I'm not going to argue that point."

Anakin chuckled; then there was gradual silence, the brief lightheartedness gone. With every quiet second that passed he could feel the distance between them stretching, and he struggled clumsily to regain the closeness that had almost felt real for an instant.

"Got any plans for today?" he asked. "We could visit some of the new landmarks Apailana was telling us about, or we could visit your family…"

The sudden alarm in Padmé's expression told Anakin that Padmé had not considered this possibility—had not even thought about it—had not, apparently, remembered that parents would have to be told. The practiced Senator shook her head abruptly, a film of neutrality falling over her face.

"Not today, Anakin," she said. "I think I'm just going to go for a walk."

Anakin nodded and said, "Okay." So Padmé finished her juice, retrieved a pair of silk slippers from the bedroom and went outside; and Anakin watched her go without saying a word, because he had absolutely no idea what else could be said. He wondered as he sat in the beautiful white kitchen by himself whether her behavior this morning would later constitute a good day or a bad one—and, if this should be considered good, what the next nine months would be like.

* * *

For a few days that was how they spent their time. They lived almost separately, less like husband and wife than like two people who happened to be staying in the same house simultaneously. Padmé was not unpleasant, not unkind, but distant.

Anakin felt that she was disappearing, not only within herself but externally as well, to a place he couldn't follow. She was becoming almost ethereal, a translucent character with a faint, permanent smile fixed on her face. He would have gone with her, wherever she was going, out of a desperate desire to retrieve his wife, but Padmé's mental walls, though untrained, were solid. Anakin could have broken through them, but shied away from breaking forcefully into her mind.

On their fourth day at the house, Anakin was meditating outside on the balcony when a faint buzzing sound interrupted his quest for inner peace. He cracked an eye, to see the large, spherical shape of a postal droid, about a meter in diameter, zooming along toward him over the water.

"Greetings, sir," it said respectfully as soon as it reached him, hovering over the railing with its single antenna quivering in the air. "Is Padmé Amidala at home? I have been authorized to make a delivery to this residence in her name."

"I'm her bodyguard," said Anakin. "I'll take it."

There was a moment of silence as the droid computed this. "That is acceptable," it responded. The panel in its belly slid to reveal a small package wrapped in brown paper, and Anakin grabbed it.

"Who is this from?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, sir, I do not have access to that information," the droid replied smartly. "Thank you, have a pleasant day." And it zoomed off again.

There was very little hesitation on Anakin's part before he opened the parcel, a fact he felt somewhat ashamed of. But it wasn't anything private, wasn't a letter or anything like that. He almost wished it was.

The paper and box aside, he turned over the bottle in his hand. It was white, thin, large, and on the cap was printed, in large, official-looking letters:

BELVEDIAN PHARMACEUTICALS

TYNNA BRANCH

THANK YOU FOR YOUR BUSINESS

Anakin frowned. Then he peered at the label, and his eyes widened.

She had just gotten up from the looks of it, bare feet shuffling on the tile, her brown hair pouring down her back. There were bruised half-moons under her eyes, and she appeared absolutely astonished to be stopped by Anakin in the middle of the hallway.

"What is this?" he demanded, holding up the bottle. Padmé took a look.

"It's mine," she said, "I ordered it." She made a grab for it, but Anakin pulled it out of her reach. Padmé stared at him, bewildered.

"What are you doing?" she asked him. It was the first sign of genuine emotion she had shown since they'd arrived.

"What is this?" he asked again, more forcefully. He was angry with her—and at the same time, he wanted to push her, wanted to make her angry as well, wanted to know that she was still alive and _could_ be angry. But it didn't seem to be working. Padmé's eyes were drifting, looking everywhere but at him.

"It's my sleep medication," she said demurely. "The hospital prescribed it for me."

"No, they didn't," Anakin snapped. "Padmé, this is Naxin. Hospitals don't prescribe Naxin—kriff, no one prescribes Naxin!"

"Well, they did for me!" Padmé retorted. Her cheekbones were beginning to flush. "Anakin, give it to me, it's mine."

"You're lying," he said flatly.

"Anakin, just—"

"How did you even get this?" he asked, still holding the bottle away from her. He was tall enough that, even with her arm fully outstretched, Anakin could hold it just out of her reach.

"Not important," she muttered.

"Do you know what Naxin does?" he demanded. "Or have you not heard? The side effects—"

"Do _you_ know what it does, Anakin?" Padmé snarled at him. Her vehemence was so unexpected that Anakin forgot to keep talking. It was like seeing a doll come suddenly to life. "It helps people sleep! People who don't care about side effects because they're so desperate, people who need it because nothing else works, people who haven't slept in four—shavving—days!"

Then the house went very, very quiet. For a few moments, there was no noise but the sound of their heavy breathing in uneven patterns that collided with one another. Chest heaving, Padmé stared at him furiously.

"You're the only Jedi here," she said finally, looking straight into his eyes. Anakin's anger abruptly deflated, to be replaced by creeping, shameful guilt. "Some people can't meditate their nightmares away."

With no more words to say, she grabbed the bottle with no resistance on Anakin's part and stalked past him. He watched her go, then turned away. It had been his first act of defiance to the events that seemed to pass by him without noticing or caring for his existence, and it had left him feeling smaller than before. Weary of the day already, Anakin left to wander the rest of the house.

It would be easier, a thousand times so, to pretend that things would right themselves. A tiny, petulant fantasy wormed into Anakin's mind, and for an instant he saw the weeks rolling by, the stranger inside Padmé never growing, and she only becoming warmer and more like herself until nothing had changed. Give it time. That could work—couldn't it?

Pink sunlight was beginning to peek through the high lattice windows, lighting the living room. Anakin had been in this room since they had arrived, remembered everything that had happened within it, but only now did those things seem relevant. As though it had been yesterday he could see a fire spring to life in the grate, the room darkened by dusk, and Padmé the darkest thing of all, her dress sparkling against the deep cushion of the sofa.

No words came to Anakin's mind. All of him was caught up in that memory, in the way her braided hair glinted in the firelight, in his own pleading, adolescent tone that he remembered with a wince. Being in love with her, intoxicated by the presence that followed him where he went like a scent, blinding him with its proximity. It was not words he remembered, nor even the picture itself, but a feeling, a sense that right had been done no matter its results. If the picture were pressed into a thought, forced to take words, they would be these: _That night, I fought for her._

Like an emergency engine suddenly revving to life, Anakin's jaw-clenching stubbornness chose this moment to kick in. This was the first test, the moment in which he first felt real doubt and sensed a possibility of defeat. The idea of defeat was still so distant that what it might entail still did not occur to him. Still, in an instant he became determined. He would not lose his wife without a fight.

* * *

The next morning found Anakin up early as usual, but not on the balcony. Instead, he was in the kitchen, laboring over the stove with a pan in one hand and a spatula in the other. He was having a small amount of trouble with the eggs, which steadfastly refused to attain the level of fluffiness he was going for.

He left them for a few seconds to start the juicer droid, and when he returned they were sticking to the sides of the pan. Anakin hastily scraped them onto a plate and examined them. Good enough, was his verdict.

"What's going on here?" he heard from behind in a bemused tone. Padmé came up to stand beside him, surveying the culinary landscape.

"Thought I'd make us some breakfast today," Anakin said. "Take this, I'm about to drop it."

He turned to hand her the plate full of eggs, and in doing so saw that the circles under her eyes were faded slightly. _Never mind, never mind,_ he told himself.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Very," Padmé admitted, then, with a smile: "You know we have droids for this, right?"

"Are you insinuating something about my cooking?"

"Me? Never."

"Just go sit down," Anakin ordered with severity, directing her with the spatula still in hand. "And I'll thank you to know that I gave the droids the morning off."

Padmé sat down at her appropriate seat and found a mug of vine-coffee waiting for her there. She sipped it. Whatever might be said about Anakin's eggs, she thought, the coffee was delicious.

"Did you tell them they weren't needed until this afternoon?" she asked.

"Didn't think to," Anakin said, shrugging. "I just told them to power down for an extra hour. Does it make a difference?"

"It might," Padmé admitted. "They'll probably just come out here and make us another breakfast in an hour."

Anakin, finished with his ministrations, sat down at the counter across from her. "Then you might have the option of two breakfasts," he said. "In this one's defense, I can assure you that, while it might not be perfect, it was made with love and not cold, uncaring droid hands." He gave her a look of such exaggerated intensity that Padmé couldn't help but laugh. Something in Anakin's chest flickered and grew minutely larger. _I made her laugh,_ he thought.

"Padmé," he said, growing sober, "I'm sorry about yesterday. Really I am."

She glanced at him from over her mug, but did not reply. She could always tell when more was coming.

"I just—" He groped at the air, frustrated for words. "Naxin's not safe. It's barely legal, you know that! People have taken it and never woken up."

She looked away, something like guilt in her expression. "The hospital tried to give me weaker medication," she said. "Nothing else worked, not really. Even when I didn't dream, every day I woke up thinking he was standing over me. You don't know—" With a sudden moan that seemed to emanate from the deepest part of her, she bent over the counter, rubbing her palms into her eyes. "It was horrible. Every day. I just wanted to—forget it. I needed some time in the dark."

He reached forward without thinking and grabbed her wrists, pulled them away from her face so he could see her eyes.

"If I lost you," he said, very slowly and deliberately, "I would die. Don't do that to me."

Padmé said nothing. In every particle of skin he touched he could feel her fear, an anxious, crawling sensation that longed to jump away and run. He wanted nothing more than to reach over the counter and kiss her. It seemed impossible that she would not come to life then. The temptation was strong—dangerous.

Anakin let go one of her hands. He felt as he did so that he was holding onto some delicate, wild creature, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger, at the first snapping of a twig. He held the other one tighter.

"I love you," he said again, as though repeating it would make it mean more to her.

In a small voice Padmé said, looking down at the white countertop, "It feels like I'm falling. Like I'm dying. All the time."

"Listen to me," said Anakin fiercely. "I will _never_ let you go."

That was when Anakin first realized that time worked differently here on Naboo. Elsewhere, it passed in chunks, in predefined hours and minutes of exactly so many beats. But here, now, time passed only in moments, and stood still for everything else.


	4. Chapter 4

On a regular basis daylight came and died into night and then became day again. This, the presence and absence of light, became the only indication that segmented areas of time existed, because it was not often that something made one day stand out from any other.

It was a sort of life that neither Anakin nor Padmé had ever really known. Since he was nine Anakin's existence had consisted of training punctuated by missions that sent him away from home for months at a time, and Padmé had never been without work of some kind, surrounded as she had always been by the never-ending demands of politics. It was healing for both of them, and, ironically, at times it was the closest Anakin had come in years to being completely at ease.

Padmé needed and appreciated this time just as much as her husband, but it wasn't long before the emptiness of it began to eat at her.

"It isn't that I mind relaxing," she complained, "but I've got to have _something_ to do in-between. I haven't had this much free time since I was thirteen."

So she commed Apailana and asked for something to keep her busy. The Queen willingly complied, sending over packets of paperwork that Anakin understood not at all. From that day on Padmé could often be found at her desk, working studiously at the wording of a new bill about to be sent to the Senate or editing a draft of a new intern's work.

Anakin didn't like her working, and said so. For him, a break was a break, and using it for work was just a waste. But Padmé had always been strange like that, and right now he was content with anything that she enjoyed. Somehow they had become happy, something that should have been an impossibility under the circumstances; it was easy to pretend that they could stay suspended in time forever, expecting no impending change. It was easy to forget, to lie to themselves.

This was most easily accomplished by not talking about it, so on the topic of Padmé's experiences and current condition they were generally silent. They filled the silences instead with other, slightly less important words, and said "I love you" many times. Always, Anakin had one small part of his mind chained to the commlink at his belt, waiting for the moment when he received a name, a location, something that would let him regain a feeling he had lost.

And then, one not-so-very special day, Padmé came up to him while he was sitting in the living room, reading an account of some old missions he'd found on his datapad. She was dressed in blue, in a loose-fitting dress Anakin had seen once before when she had come to comfort him on Tatooine, and her hair was down around her shoulders.

"Anakin," she said, "I think I need to talk to my parents."

He looked up, surprised. Somehow the necessity, no matter how eventual, of what she wanted to do had escaped him. But he nodded. "Of course," he said. "About—"

"About everything."

His eyebrows shot up. "Everything?" he repeated.

Padmé smiled uncomfortably. "Not everything," she corrected. "I just think they should know that I'm—" One arm curved across her abdomen to finish her sentence.

Putting the datapad aside, Anakin looked up at her. "Do you want me to come?" he asked.

She nodded uncertainly. "I can't do this without you," she said, staring at the floor.

Anakin stood, pulled her hand into his. "You can do anything. You're the bravest person I know," he said. Was that what he was supposed to say? Nothing he did felt right anymore.

"They still don't know about us." Padmé's features fell into familiar, distressed lines. "If you don't want to come, I understand."

This Anakin knew the answer to. "If you need me to be a Jedi, I can do that," he said. Without any direction from his brain, his hand had come up to smooth her hair. "And if you need a husband, I can do that, too."

"Jack of all trades?" she said, amused.

"I'm very versatile."

* * *

They left the next morning for the Naberrie home, Anakin driving through the sparkling early air in an open speeder. Padmé was anxious to the point of illness, her usually calm demeanor completely destroyed. Her hands fluttered in turn to her face, her hair, her cloak like frantic white butterflies.

"Do they know we're coming?" Anakin asked her. She nodded, not looking at him.

"I commed them last night. They sounded—excited."

"Why shouldn't they be? Of course they want to see you."

"Right now."

He looked over at her, paying minimal attention to the road. "Nothing you say will make your family love you any less. Especially when you haven't even done anything wrong."

Padmé said something very quiet.

"What?"

"Nothing."

There was a pause.

"Are you still taking Naxin?" he ventured.

She shot him a look that could have melted glass. "Can we please not have this conversation again?" she snapped.

Anakin turned back to the road. "Sorry."

When they reached the house, Anakin parked and went around to help Padmé out of the speeder, but she'd already stood. As she did so, the hood of her cloak fell down to her shoulders to reveal an artistically mussed mass of curls, pinned carefully back with ornaments made of some blue gemstone. A massive wave of _déjà vu_ hit Anakin in the chest at the sight.

Side by side they walked up the steps, and when they reached the door Padmé stopped. Anakin could feel her heart quaking without touching her; it sucked all the air around her into its frantic pulse. Lips barely moving, she asked, "How am I supposed to do this?"

Gingerly, Anakin reached his arms around her waist. This, he knew from experience, was permitted him. Fortunate, that he was allowed to touch her dress. He wanted to say something kind, something comforting, but at that moment the door began to open, and he only had time to hastily move away before Jobal was standing there.

"Padmé!" she cried, reaching out her arms to her daughter, and Padmé's face brightened as it hadn't in a month. Anakin stood apart, watched them embrace and thought what a contrast Padmé's ornate, obviously expensive wardrobe made against the plainly-cut lavender dress Jobal wore beneath her apron. She looked like a princess calling on peasants.

"Anakin," Jobal said, turning to him and smiling widely. "It's a pleasure to have you here again. Every time I see you I feel obliged to thank you again for keeping my daughter safe."

Anakin shifted uncomfortably and swallowed. "Thank you, Mrs. Naberrie," he said quietly, glancing over at Padmé. It seemed like the perfect opening ("Actually, Mom…"), but she probably didn't want to blurt it out on the front steps.

"Come in, you two," said Jobal, stepping aside to allow them entrance. "You're just in time for breakfast." As they stepped into the foyer, Padmé's cloak slipping from her shoulders, Jobal added, "Padmé, your father's in his study. I'll tell him you're here," and left. The second she was gone, Padmé froze.

"I don't know if this is a good idea," she said, looking at Anakin. "Maybe we should go."

"You'll regret it later if you do," he told her. As always when he was uncomfortable, his right hand moved down to his hip, to caress the worn, familiar hilt of his lightsaber. Now that she had made the decision, he knew that any hesitation on her part was nerves rather than true judgment, and he wouldn't let her back down because of it.

By the time they'd moved into the dining room, Ruwee was waiting for them. Padmé ran to him, and once more Anakin stood to the side. Looking too long at them felt awkward, so his gaze moved aimlessly around the room, through the broad windows out to the sunlit gardens, to the warm and familial room in which they stood. Plates were set out, and Anakin counted four, so he assumed that Sola would not be joining them this time.

"Are you two ready to eat?" Jobal asked. She had appeared in the doorway with two bowls of something that Anakin couldn't see. Whatever it was, it smelled delicious, though his appetite was meager at best.

"Where's Sola?" Padmé asked, sitting down. Anakin joined her, still feeling uncomfortable and out of place despite Jobal's best efforts.

"Oh, she and Darred have been off-world for the past few weeks," Ruwee said. "He was offered a job on Alderaan. Fantastic opportunity, and of course Sola and the children went with him."

"I know she'll be sorry to have missed you, though," Jobal said, with a regretful smile. "The girls ask about you all the time, Padmé."

Conversation deteriorated after this point. The Naberries wanted to hear all about their daughter's life since she had been away, but Padmé would only give them so much information before clamming up. Each time she did so, Anakin gave her a look which she determinedly ignored. He understood her reluctance, though; this hardly seemed an appropriate place for such talk. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, the room would change.

At last, Jobal stopped giving hints and threw caution to the winds. "Padmé, it seemed like there was something you wanted to talk about when you commed," she said. "Was it something important?"

For several long seconds, Padmé stared at her plate. "Yes, it was," she murmured at last. With the ridiculous intuition that Anakin remembered faintly from his own mother, Jobal stared hard at her daughter for a moment, then said—in a voice that was the exact audible opposite of her facial expression—"Honey, what's wrong?"

Ruwee, now looking concerned, cleared his throat and said, "Anakin, could you give us a moment alone?"

Padmé gave her permission with a faint nod, and Anakin—to his own shame—practically ran from the room. The first place he thought to go was the garden; he liked the Naberrie's garden. His only goal was to get the door shut behind him before he heard her speak. He managed it.

* * *

Once he was outside, of course, there wasn't really much to do. He wandered, looking at the budding flowers and trees and immaculate grass, and a part of him really did enjoy them. But a larger part was bored and anxious. Anakin took a long breath in through his nose and tried not to think, tried to meditate. But after twenty minutes or so, he found himself leaning against the wall behind which, he knew, was the Naberrie kitchen, and he could hear the bricks speaking in low tones beneath his fingertips.

don't want to talk about that, they murmured in Padmé's voice.

I understand. But I can't help wondering… Jobal trailed off. Anakin saw her think of him standing beside Padmé as they had first walked in.

He's—it's not anyone you know, Padmé reassured her, as though the knowledge were somehow reassuring. He's a good man, very kind.

Does he know about this?

No, Mom, I told you. He was only on Coruscant for a few nights. I didn't even know until after he was gone.

Hesitation.

I'm proud of you, sweetie, Jobal murmured suddenly, and there was a hug, staining Padmé's dress with soap suds and dishwater. Anakin didn't even have to try to feel Padmé's surprise radiating through the wall.

Why? The tone was odd, stilted somehow. Oh…she was crying.

Because you could have gone to a clinic and made your life a thousand times easier, and you didn't. You did the right thing, Padmé, and I'm so proud of you for being brave…

Now she was crying too, and Anakin felt too uncomfortable to go on listening. He pulled away from the wall, casting an instinctive glance up at the window through which he could see nothing but cabinets; when he turned around, Ruwee was standing there.

"I—oh—I'm sorry, I didn't see—" Anakin stammered. He was suddenly aware of how the situation looked, and embarrassed by the fact that its appearance in no way belied the truth.

Ruwee took a step toward him, and Anakin went backward, until his fingers fumbled against the crumbling stones. The words behind them bored into his mind, though he tried to ignore them.

"You have been protecting my daughter a long time," Ruwee said abruptly. "For that, I am very grateful."

He didn't sound grateful, but Anakin tried to take the statement at face value. "It's my honor, sir," he said, struggling for a neutral tone.

"Indeed." Anakin tried suddenly to shake the feeling of being some teenage girl's first date, scrutinized beyond hope of acceptance. "I believe you to be a good man, Master Skywalker."

"Thank you."

"And I see the way you look at my daughter."

If Ruwee Naberrie had hit him over the head with a brick, Anakin would have been slightly less stunned. Completely lost for words, he tried nonetheless to deny, but only a vague stuttering noise made it out of his mouth before Ruwee spoke over him.

"As I said, I believe you to be a good man. If I did not believe this, you would not be here now, and you certainly would not be anywhere near Padmé. Do not make me change my mind. If you have been with my daughter, do not lie. Is the child Padmé is carrying yours?"

Somehow, Anakin's bewildered brain was still able to focus on the fact that he had to lie. They had discussed the reasons over and over again: for safety, for appearances, for the sake of their careers. One living person—the nurse at the Core hospital—knew about him and Padmé, and that was one too many.

But somehow, as he fumbled through all the possible lies he could tell, the a piece of the truth slipped out.

"Sir," he said, his voice hoarse, "I wish with all of me that it were."

* * *

As they drove home, Anakin watched her. "Feel better?" he asked.

Slowly, Padmé nodded. Her hands were folded loosely in her lap, resting against the shining blue of her dress like blossoms fallen from a tree; they lacked the nervous energy that had plagued her movements on the previous trip.

"I do," she admitted. "I'm glad they know at least some of it. And they didn't—" She cleared her throat. "They weren't upset. Not very, anyway. Not as much as they could have been."

"See, I told you it would be okay," Anakin teased, daring to smile slightly. There was a moment in which he debated saying the words in his head; then he tossed the debate out the window in a brazen attempt to make her laugh. "So, what did you tell them about the father?"

Padmé looked stunned at the question; Anakin was about to rescind it hastily and with apologies when a sheepish smile appeared at the corner of her lips. Anakin stopped holding his breath.

"Not much," she said. "As little as I could manage—but I think they think it's someone in the Senate."

Anakin nodded in mock understanding. "Ah, yes. Senator's Amidala's famous tryst with Orn Free Taa—ow!"

She'd punched him in the shoulder. "At least have the decency to pair me up with someone handsome."

"What about his aide?"

It wasn't something Anakin would have considered joking with Padmé about under the best of circumstances. Now, it should have been marital suicide. But somehow, strangely, the joke was so taboo, so crude, that it surpassed all normal rules for decent conversation, and was inexplicably funny.

When they reached the lake house, Anakin reached over and took her hand. He leaned in, never breaking her gaze.

"Do you want to go swimming?" he asked her.

Padmé's eyes widened with surprise. "Now?"

"Of course now." He straightened, practically pulling her from the seat. "My Force, you know how bored I've been? Let's do something fun."

They moved down to the beach, Padmé following him with bewildered amusement. The sun was just beginning to set, shooting rays of pink and gold haphazardly into the sky and reflecting gloriously in the lake. Beneath this celestial light, Anakin balanced precariously on one foot, attempting to pull his socks off without letting go of his wife's hand. He managed, but just barely.

"I thought you hated sand," Padmé pointed out, remaining fully clothed.

"I think I changed my mind," Anakin said firmly, pulling his tunic over his head. He waded in up to his knees, then turned around. "Are you coming in or not?"

Flustered and laughing, Padmé shook her head. "I can't, you know I can't," she protested. "Do you know how much this dress cost?"

"Uh-huh. Children in Tatooine are starving because of it. Get in the damn water."

Padmé played with her hair as she stood on the beach in the dying sunlight, torn in indecision. From where Anakin stood, he could see a golden fuzzy halo surrounding her body. At last, she threw up her hands, helpless.

"All right!" she surrendered. "Just give me a second."

Turning around, Padmé reached up and gingerly began to unfasten the first tiny button at the back of her dress. Her uncertain fingers twisted the small pearl back and forth until it slipped from the threaded loop, revealing a graceful V of skin as the cloth fell open.

She continued the ritual, slowly, until at last she stepped out of the dress and onto the dampened sand. Beneath it was only a simple white shift, thin and almost translucent. Padmé blushed as she walked into the water, and when she hesitated Anakin held out his hand for her.

"You look beautiful," he told her quietly, pulling her close. Padmé made a small noise, deep in the back of her throat, and nestled her head against his bare chest. The water splashed quietly against their legs; Anakin was suddenly very much aware of her body fitting snugly against his, and swallowed. Not the time, he told himself sternly.

"This feels nice," Padmé murmured suddenly, lips brushing against his skin as she spoke. This did nothing to appease Anakin's growing feeling of desire, but he did his best to suppress it.

"It doesn't count unless you get wet," he said, and pulled away. Grudgingly, Padmé followed him further out. When they were up to their waists he pulled her under, and when she resurfaced she was laughing.

On a normal night, Anakin knew where this would have ended. From the beach, half-dressed, they would have gradually made their way between kisses up the hillside, until they fell into the bedroom, and he could hold her as she ought to be held and touch her as she ought to be touched, and she would be his wife and he, her husband. But this was not a normal night, and that was the thought that stayed with him, haunting him, as they gathered their things and dressed, and then walked up the hill side by side, not really touching.

Once inside, Anakin sank down in the luxurious couch that sat before the empty fireplace and raked a hand through his still-wet hair. It was growing longer, he though absently, neglected in the face of more important things. Now it was past his ears, aching to twist into curls at the nape of his neck. He sighed, and looked down the white hallway where he knew Padmé was.

More than anything, he wanted to go to her now. Until now he had almost forgotten how long it had been since he and Padmé had spent the night together. Now it seemed painfully obvious. Rubbing a tired hand over his face, Anakin was forced to admit to himself that he wanted release. Was it terribly selfish of him to be thinking this way when his wife had undergone such trauma? It certainly felt so.

And yet—Anakin rose, and paced, as his thoughts grew more emphatic—it wasn't only what he wanted physically—no, it _wasn't_, he repeated to the cynic in his head. Padmé laughed sometimes, smiled sometimes, but her walls were still there, strong and blatant. She was shunning him still, whether or not she meant to, and more than ever now Anakin wanted to know her, be inside her head. That he wasn't didn't feel right.

With a muted sound of frustration Anakin threw up his arms and held them behind his head, breathing between clenched teeth. They were supposed to be a partnership; they were supposed to be one flesh. This wall, this helplessness, felt unnatural and awful.

The worst part, he thought, was that there were so few things he could do about it. In cases like this, according to popular theory, time was the only healer. He couldn't stand up and force Padmé to get over what had happened to her, even without the ever-present reminder of another man's child growing inside her. Anakin knew now that helplessness was worse than torture, worse than pain, worse than waiting. There were so few things he could do.

He looked down the hallway again.

* * *

Padmé was sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing her damp hair, when Anakin came in, a white pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She looked up, and Anakin cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"I know you usually take this before bed, so, I thought I'd give you a little help tonight," he said, offering his gifts. There was a beautiful smile on her face when she took them.

"Thank you," she said, sincerity shining in her voice. With the smooth, practiced motion of an experienced pill-taker, Padmé swallowed it and then took a gulp of the proffered water. Then she looked up at him.

"I should probably get to bed, it usually kicks in pretty fast," she said. One hand came up to hold his. Her eyes were deep brown, and right now showed no indication of the pain she was hiding. "Anakin—thanks for coming with me today. I know this isn't easy for you."

There were a dozen things Anakin could have said to his wife just then. He could have tried to describe how much he loved her, how much he would sacrifice for her, although he had done it many times before. He could have agreed with her to lighten the mood, maybe made a joke about being interrogated by Ruwee. He could have told her that the pill she had just taken was not Naxin, but rather a very mild painkiller.

In the end, he only brushed his fingers against her cheek, said, "Don't worry about me," and moved to the other side of the bed.

Later that night, when Padmé tossed and turned in the throes of a predictably restless nightmare, Anakin moved to be closer to her and put a hand on her arm. Her dreams bled through her skin, and she moaned when he touched her. Lying on his back, Anakin stared up at the ceiling and watched with her.

Instantly came a sensation of violation, a sudden and pressing urge to back away. Then, gradually through the gloom, came fleeting pictures, like a video slowly coming into focus: a hand, a knife, streaks of pain running down her back. Someone was stabbing again and again, merciless, careless of the damage he was doing to precious skin and muscle and bone. He hated them all, hated the skin and the bone and muscle, because they were precious. And Anakin, struggling to fight back the foreign feeling, was infuriated because he could not see a face.

"_I'm here,"_ said a guttural voice in the dream. _"And I think it would be best if you stayed. I wasn't the one that hurt you."_

Dream Padmé nodded resignedly; Anakin willed her to turn, to look at her assailant.

"_Look at me," _the voice demanded. _"I made you. Look at me!"_

A harsh hand on her dream shoulder made Padmé turn, but something obscured her vision. He came down on her like a hammer, slapped her so hard that she stumbled and fell.

"_I can't see you!" _she pleaded with him, but he hit her again. As though the slap had knocked the blindfold from her eyes, the darkness disappeared in a second—and then Anakin saw his face.

Instantly, everything else faded for him. The face was his world, and he memorized everything about it: every scar, every crease, every eyelash. When he was certain that it had been permanently burned into his memory, only then did he pull out of Padmé, and he found that he was panting for breath.

What hell, he thought as he recovered and stood. To relive that every night—no wonder Padmé took Naxin. As he groped for his commlink in the dark, he found he was shaking.

"Dex?"

"Who is this?" The Besalisk sounded grumpy, as though he had been interrupted.

"It's Anakin. Anakin Skywalker?"

Instantly, Dexter's voice changed. "Anakin, good to hear from you! How have you been?"

"Um…" Anakin glanced over his shoulder, voice low, but Padmé didn't seem to be waking. "Listen, could you keep it down? I have a favor to ask."

"Sure. What's got you stumped?"

"I'm looking for a perp. He's on the official channels, but they'll never find him that way—and I need to find him."

There was some hesitation on the other end. "Anakin, you know I don't travel in those circles anymore."

"No, but you know people who do. I've got a description and last known address, that's it, but I know you can do something with it."

Dexter sighed. "All right, give it to me."

Anakin relayed every bit of information he had, stopping every few seconds to ensure that Dex was getting it all, and asked him more than once if he was writing it down. Dexter assured him that he was.

"I got it, I got it," he said finally. "Is that it?"

"That's all."

"Great. Now mind telling me what this is all about?"

Anakin pursed his lips, glanced down at the floor and then up again. "Something important," he said. Then he hung up and went back to bed.


End file.
